the empty spaces between stars
by florelles
Summary: It is spring, and like always, he is much too late. — ScorpiusRose


**notes: **A headcanon of sorts in fic form.

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**the empty spaces between stars**

This is the last memory he has of her:

She leans over him, red hair brushing gently against his cheeks. Her eyes dance, mischievous and mirthful. She is laughing—she is always laughing. (He can't remember a time when she isn't.) Rose kisses him chastely at first, then open-mouthed, clutching his shirt tightly in her fists. The air is cool on their skin, the bedsheets rough and wrinkled. Shadows flicker across her face in the dim light—she is much too near that he can no longer see her clearly.

Rose wants to train dragons or play Quidditch professionally. Rose wants to travel and feeds promises to her worried family that she won't disappear, won't be a second Lucy. Rose wants to do anything and everything, unfazed by the uncertainty of her future. He's envious. He'll always be envious, Scorpius thinks, even when he holds her close, kisses her, falls a little more in love with her each time her eyes curve into half-moons. _That's the Malfoy boy_, they whisper conspicuously in the corridors as he walks by in loping, lazy strides. _Has nothing going for him. Destined for failure, that one._

Instead of class, he spends his time smoking cigarettes. He skips rocks with Albus Potter out by the Great Lake; as of recent, Al is just barely ahead in their immature competition. He runs his fingers through Rose's soft waves as she works on an essay for Care of Magical Creatures, smiling slightly when she cranes her neck to look inquisitively at him. Rose's eyes flicker to his unopened books, exhaling tiredly when she realizes he hasn't written a single word the entire time they've been in the library. When he kisses her, right then and there, she pulls away, resting her forehead against his. Her eyes are the color of the ocean and downcast; for once, she isn't laughing.

It's on a rainy day in late April when Rose breaks her news to him. "I'm going to Norway to work with the dragons," she says as she flips onto her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows. Scorpius traces patterns on the inside of her wrist and hums to let her know he's listening. It's quiet, except for the rain beating sure and steadily against the window.

"Scorpius." Rose lifts herself up, hugging a pillow against her stomach as though she needs something to anchor herself to. "I won't be coming back. After Norway. They offered me a position in Salem under Uncle Charlie's recommendation—I'll be moving there once they finish building the dragon sanctuary. I don't know how long I'll be gone."

He's trembling. His hands shake so violently that Rose grabs them, rubbing her thumb across his knuckles. Scorpius can't bear to look at her—but he does, because he's never been able to stop himself before. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," she says. "I wasn't sure of how you would react."

Scorpius thinks about all the things he should've accomplished in his seven years at Hogwarts. Transform his hedgehog into a pincushion. Defeat boggarts. Duel. Tried out for the Quidditch team and make it. But it is spring, and like always, he is much too late.

Rose tugs at his fingers, a thoughtful expression etched into her features. "What do you want me to do?" she asks. Her tone is delicate, sober, as though she is worried he will shatter into pieces if she is too careless; her eyes are trained directly at him.

"I don't know," he answers. Honest.

"What do you want to do?"

Scorpius shakes his head. "I don't know." Rose bites her bottom lip and turns away, a curtain of red hair covering her face. Her next words come out so softly that he nearly misses it: "Do you want me to stay?"

There are so many things about Rose that only he knows. In fourth year, when she almost failed Defense Against the Dark Arts. A scattering of freckles on her left arm he can trace a star from. The way her head falls back, eyes hooded and jaw lax, as he presses wet kisses against her neck and down the length of her body.

He reaches out, brushing his fingers across her cheekbone; she leans into his palm, closing her eyes with a sigh. "No," he says. It is the hardest thing he's ever had to say. "I think you'll come to resent me. Maybe not in the beginning—but eventually. I know it's selfish, but it's not something I want to see happen one day."

The day before she leaves, the sky is clear. Rose is cheerful—the sort of cheerfulness tinged with the particular shade of the sea. Scorpius watches her throw last-minute necessities into her trunk, his heartbeat racing. When she finally crawls into bed, she's smiling so widely that he can't help but swallow the protests stuck to the sides of his throat.

"I'll come back for the holidays," Rose tells him, earnest and bright-eyed and so, so heart-breaking. She wraps her arms around his neck, leaning in so close that their breaths mingle. "We can make time to be with each other. Doesn't that sound nice?"

Three months from now, will he still be living in the same, run-down flat with Albus? Will he still be working for the same, secondhand bookstore that no one goes to two years later, when Rose leaves for America? He isn't particularly fond of children either, so applying as a Potions assistant (the only class he even tried in) at Hogwarts is out of the question. All he wants is a sense of stability. All he wants is—her. Her, her, her.

"Yes," Scorpius finally says, defeated. "It sounds nice."


End file.
